Rumble
by SaturnineSunshine
Summary: CB. "It takes the edge of the coke." Inspired by 4x19 and everything before, a character study of Chuck Bass and the lengths he is driven to.


**A/N**: Just to be clear, this has nothing to do with Monday's episode. You may seem some similarities, but those were necessary. Anyway, this was something inspired that I almost put in my vignette fic, but I was too proud of it not too. Inspired once again as a Chuck character study. Because if you look back, I'm sure you'll see the same thing develop since the beginning. I've been told this is a tade drabble-y and I know that, but it can't be helped. It's just the nature of the Chuck.

**Disclaimer**: Nothing belongs to me. Characters belong to GG and I was be SO impressed of any of you can recognize the quote I took from_ Pulp Fiction._

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><p>Just as seductive. Just as alluring.<p>

Just as _pure_.

As pure as they come and he can always afford the purest. It is glamorous. It is fantastic.

Just like her.

Pure.

Just like her.

It sneaks upon him. The way she does in her own white dress, and he doesn't think anything of it. She tilts and shakes his world in white. So virginal. So innocent.

So fucking _good_.

There is that discharge, that spasm, that explosion, and nothing can feel down again.

Just one little taste and that was all it took. A little taste of her, a little taste of serotonin, but suddenly the heart he didn't know he had is bruised and bloody from her little excursions. Bruised and bloodied in white with a missed _I love you_ and longing glances.

That White Party is whiter beneath the surface, where no one can see. Nathaniel's blue eyes can betray innocence—innocence that she epitomizes on the surface, but like everything else, turns out to be a mere facade. That boy looks frightened and confused at the bag in his hand, but there is a truth that his best friend doesn't want to ruin for him.

Almost doesn't.

Because he still offers to bump.

He is still the devil, not so much in disguise.

She grabs hold of him and hooks into his soul. And he's not letting go of hers. Insomnia and rage are just symptoms, but it is never the disease that is the cause of his worry. He likes the disease. He wants to drown in it.

He wants to die in it.

And she's slowly killing him. He relishes each little death as she brings him to absolution.

She reels him in and spurns his advances until it destroys them both. Until he's sitting in a board room, surrounded by hookers and his vices, his voice rough-'_who the hell are you?'_

He wishes he could feel those tears welling in her eyes. He wishes he could feel anything but rage. But he is rage, and only when the effects have worn off can he go to her properly.

And she spurns him again.

She will always be the death of him.

She reels him back in.

Dressed in black, she's still white. She's still pure, still strong.

This time he doesn't stumble over those three words. But this time, it's too late for him anyway. He's gone. She will be the only woman he will say those words to, and he knows that. He was never afraid of that.

But he should be. She will scratch and claw at him until he's bleeding to death, a ring pressed to his palm. But that isn't the worst of it.

The worst is simply living without her. The worst is rolling up that dollar bill, because he knows it's the only thing that keeps the fire burning within him.

Nathaniel's innocence still surprises him. Only she can be white, and even as he takes out the bag, Nate is still surprised.

_'I find the cause is the best cure.'_

He is nonchalant because he has to be. He can't let her see him when she won't let him see her.

And yet, she still frightens him. Because it's her and there never really is any other way. He thinks that maybe she doesn't know and he still has the instinct to protect her.

He knows that will never go away.

But her eyes glide easily across his glass table, and he knows she sees the money, the white, the lines.

She doesn't care. He tells himself this. He can't entertain the thought that she still does. It's still confusing. Like those texts she still sends, thanking him for his humanitarianism. It's too confusing. She cares; she doesn't.

So he just breathes it all in. It's the only thing he does understand.

And she leaves again. Not necessarily leaving because she never really came back to begin with. But he snorts her and white innocence turns to red passion like his nostrils, and he let himself fill her to the brim so they could both feel again.

She's hot and she's sweet and she's sharp and she's soft and he can't help but steal another sniff of her.

And another.

And another.

Until his mind is a whirlwind of orgasm and sex and gratification.

Her nails make lines across his back like the ones across his table and he just takes another hit.

And she leaves again.

And she leaves again.

And she leaves again.

And he falls apart.

Again.

So beautiful, so pure, so horrible.

And all he wants is some more.

She refuses. She leaves. She insults him.

Another line.

Nate asks and he tells the truth. It's all he has now. Nate still says nothing and he doesn't care. He doesn't care about the shock or the disdain. He just doesn't want the pity.

And he won't get it. Not from anyone.

Nate's silence is enough; Nate might as well have accused him of having an addiction. But he isn't an addict. There are many things he is in denial about, but that isn't one of them. If he's addicted to anything, it's the bitch who made him dependent in the first place. She's his stimulant. She's his high.

She's his worst fucking nightmare.

And he loves her.

He loves her so much that he inhales and sucks and breathes rage. So much rage at everything that she denies herself and all the lies she tells herself.

Because if he can't live without her, she sure isn't going to live without him. It isn't a threat. It's simply a fact. They both know it.

He knows it with such conviction that none of it matters. Nate's concerned eyes matter, and watching her walk away surely doesn't matter.

It's all going to come back around again.

"You can't do this."

"Watch me."

Too much concern, too much care.

"You're substituting her."

"Very astute, Nathaniel."

He knew as much when he was eighteen, let alone almost twenty and spiraling so deliciously because it feels exactly like she does when she's groaning and tight and clenching fantastically around him.

Fantastic and glamorous.

Pure.

Just like her.

It's too much. It's been too long. Too long without her and visions of heated kisses and tongues lapping up everything they can reach echo in his empty body.

Nothing is the same.

Nothing but the rage.

He's had too much. Self-loathing is a familiar feeling and it's enough. It's enough to see himself and it shatters. His reflection shatters around him fast and he hurls it across the room.

"Goddamn."

It's not a hallucination.

It's not even Nathaniel. It's all high heels and Chanel No. 5 and he laughs harshly.

"You're a fucking mess."

"And I miss fucking you."

She isn't surprised. That's what surprises him. She isn't scornful. She isn't judgmental.

Then again, she never was. She was just his. Even from an early age, they understood each other and that's what matters.

Her heels crunch on shards of mirror before she steps over him where she can safely kneel at his side. He thinks of funerals and her putting his shoes on the right feet.

She's here.

That's what matters.

He doesn't need his substitute when she's right here.

"You're a mess, Bass."

Her voice is soft this time, and he almost jerks away in astonishment as she strokes his hair from his face. He is vaguely aware of the sting, but she's plucking glass from his knuckles as easily as she smiles and he knows they won't ever be normal.

And he never wants to be.

She's plucking reflection from his hand and their hands are touching and their hands are holding and he knows he'll need his substitute. He had since he took his first snort of her and he will until she lets him snort her again.

It's clear now. No hiding in the dark with her averting her eyes. She knows.

_'Scotch for breakfast?'_

_'It takes the edge off the coke.'_

It's blatant and it's clear and he'll stop.

Only if he can inhale her again.

But without her, he'll just need something to keep him going.

Something white, something pure.

Just like her.

_I said, Goddamn. Goddamn._


End file.
